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You know what I'm sick of hearing about?

Tiger Woods.

Guess what people...I JUST DON'T CARE that he slept with a bunch of women who weren't his wife.

Not even a tiny bit.

Less than you're thinking even.

And yet here I am talking about it because it's all I hear about on the damn radio.

Let me ask you this: Did Tiger Woods ever sign up to be anything but a really good golfer? Nope. So he cheated on his wife. He can still probably swing a golf club and that's all I expect of him. Whatever else he wants to do in his spare time is really none of my business.

Please tell the media to get it together. There MUST be something else to talk about, right? Anything? Hell, I'd even listen to more TO talk if it means I don't have to listen to everyone act like Tiger Woods has raped and murdered a small child or something.

In which I pretend that you're going to find this interesting, but we all know the truth.

My apartment occasionally gets a little out of control in the messy department.

I know. You're shocked, right?

Generally, I'm not unclean, just cluttered. Basically meaning that while my kitchen is pretty clean, there are clothes EVERYWHERE. This gets particularly bad when I do anything that messes with my routine.

Oh, man, I just totally lied to you guys. I don't have a routine at all! Ha!

What I really mean is, this generally happens when I don't bother to make time for me at home.

And lately? I really haven't been.

Finally, the mess just got to be TOO MUCH. So I cleaned. And I did ALL my laundry. All of it. This is no small feat.

Here's what I discovered:

1. That purse that I lost? Was exactly where I thought it was. It was just covered up by my spring jacket.

2. I own most of the world's stock in wife-beater tank tops. I do use them for sleeping, working out, and other things, but 40 of them? Probably too many.

3. There is now enough underwear in my underwear drawer for me to go about six months without needing to wash any. And that's after I got rid of all the pairs that I don't like.

4. I probably have 100 pairs of socks. This is not an exaggeration.

5. My carpet doesn't actually have any red flecks in it. Apparently that was just my hair.

6. My bed looks really weird when it's made.

7. There's a chair in my room that I hadn't seen in six months because it was covered in clothing.

8. There's actually carpet on my closet floor. I even know what it looks like now.

9. I have enough workout pants to work out every single day for at least a month without running out. That does not include shorts. Don't even get me started on the sports bras.

10. And finally, my bed is REALLY REALLY comfy. I hadn't slept in it in at least two months.

So you see where cleaning your apartment can get you, kids? I realized at the point when I was vacuuming that I hadn't actually vacuumed since I moved in. That's just wrong. Don't tell my mother.

I'm just one of those weird people.

In email. In chat. On Twitter. Pretty much everywhere in my life, I'm the person who is always writing in complete sentences, with proper punctuation. Only rarely do I abbreviate things (WTF? is totally the new black, so shut it).

Things you'll never find in any written message from me (unless someone is holding a gun to my head):

u - as in "you."

ur - as in "your" or "you're," how handy that you don't even have to figure out which one.

lol, LOL, lololol - or any combination thereof. Also, I'm probably not laughing out loud. I don't lie about that sort of thing. For instance, mooog35? Caused me to actually launch snot across my desk with the joke at the end of this post.

2 - as in "to" or "too," or hell even as in "two." I actually follow the "if it's less than two digits, write it out" rule. And again, how lucky that you don't have to figure out which to use, "to" or "too."

dont, cant, shouldnt, didnt - as in "don't," "can't," "shouldn't," "didn't."

Wednesday's, DVD's, steak's - as in "Wednesdays," "DVDs," "steaks." Plurals don't need an apostrophe. Ever.

tho - it has three more letters people. How lazy can we be?

I'm sure there are others, but I can't think of any more.

The thing is, seeing any of those things in written communication to me? Pretty much causes me to stop paying attention. I try, but it's hard to take anything seriously when I have to translate it in my head. And I know I have some friends who do this...and I'm not judging you (only a little), but know that it is a testament to my love for you that I continue to translate. With anyone else? I'm out.

Don't feel bad. I'm the weird one. All the cool kids are doing it. But I don't want to get dumber, so I think I'll stick with complete sentences and stuff.

Climbing the Wall

I've been rock climbing for a few months now, and I love it. I had done it years ago, and sort of liked it, but now? It's a passion.

I'm not very good at it yet.

I don't care.

There's this one route at the climbing gym that's giving me trouble. It's a route I should be able to climb, theoretically. I can climb all the other ones that are at the same level (except one, but seriously...it's harder and I'm working on it, too).

You see, on this route, the second move is to grip these holds that I simply cannot grip. They are awkward and slippery and I just can't seem to get them. But the third move is this perfect yellow hold, for my right hand. Last night, I finally (after weeks of trying to just get off the ground) managed to get my right hand up to that yellow hold.

It hurt.

A lot.

Then I realized that I needed to get my left foot up underneath my butt. The only problem was that my right hand was smashing the left side of my body against the wall, making it really difficult to move my left food underneath me without pulling my right hand out of the hold.

I was in my own way.

I finally got my left foot where I needed it to be, but I didn't have the strength to pull myself up any further. I didn't trust my legs to hold me. I'd seen other people do it. I knew what needed to be done, but I just couldn't quite trust myself to do it.

This morning I was thinking about this problem and I started to realize that this route, this path on a rock climbing wall, might be a pretty good parallel to my own life.

I've spent so much time and energy trying to reach this one thing. I struggled and struggled. I fell down. I got back up. And then, I finally got my hand on it.

What if that one thing isn't what I want after all? It's the only path I can see. It's the attainable goal. But what if reaching it puts me in my own way? What if reaching it has drained me of the strength I need for anything else? How do I trust myself to keep going, or, even harder, find another path?

I swear I'm going to give you guys an update on what was my horrendous experience traveling back from Seattle...

Just not right this second. I have a crap-ton (technical term) of work to do.

But I totally love you all and I miss you and I will write soon! Also, I will catch up on all your blogs. Promise.

Since I'm on vacation, I thought I'd post the rest of those pictures.

So I've arrived in Seattle. My time in Denver was a blast. Good to see old friends and hang out. But Seattle? I want to make slow love to it all night long. It is amazing here. I just got cold walking to get coffee. COLD. In July.

Oh you know how people are always joking about not being able to walk in Seattle without tripping over a coffee shop? That's not really an exaggeration. At all.

Anyway, here are the pictures. Promise I'll log in and blog more later. After I shave my head and get several tattoos.


More from my younger days. This is me with my Aunt Dana's Boston Terrier, Tucker. I was scared to death of him, despite what it may look like.



My mom's second wedding. That's my sister's dad with the child molester mustache. He's not a child molester, though, I promise.



I'm at the beach! Someone carved my name in the sand with a shovel!



Meet Sanders, my first boyfriend. I suspect that he doesn't know he was my first boyfriend, but that's his problem. He lived next door to my aunt and uncle (I helped dig their pool with a spoon...dressed in my bikini. Shut up, I was three.).



Me and my little sister (of Moving Checklist fame) at Rock City in Chatanooga, Tennessee. Note the sexy hot skort things we're both wearing and my sister's 12-inch thick bangs. Anyone who's ever asked me what color my hair really is...I'm pretty sure this is it!



Let's move on to some scary hair. I really have no idea what the fuck I'm doing or why on earth I would still have such a picture in my picture album, but...here it is. Try not to be afraid.


Seriously...WTF?

Oh, and here's my I-have-no-idea-why-this-is-my-school-picture 8th grade school picture in Hawaii. With three of my best friends. And in case you were wondering, yes, I do believe that is a rodeo scene across the chest of my white button-down shirt. No, I have no idea why that would be the case.



On to high school, where my mom promptly made me do Glamour Shots. Please hold while I scrub the two inches of makeup off my face. I remember the whole time this "photo shoot" was taking place, feeling like I couldn't smile, lest I crack my face in half.



A montage of high school/high school dance pictures. Eesh.

My high school boyfriend, Marc. I'm wearing a vest. I don't know why.



In this one, I look possessed.



School pictures, junior and senior year. Who let me get a perm (no, it wasn't the first time)?






Sophomore homecoming. It seemed like a good idea at the time to go ahead and dance before we got our picture taken. Nice hair, eh? And seriously, if you haven't already, check out those eyebrows. They're like caterpillars. I hadn't really noticed yet, though.



Junior homecoming. Meet Tony. He was the goalie on our soccer team. And he had green eyes. And a car! Oh, and he was kind of a jerk. Why yes, those are chopsticks in my hair.



Senior prom. Meet Travis, son of the nudist parents. Oh, how my mom hated him.




We stayed at prom for about 45 minutes. Then we went out somewhere but I have no idea where no one tell my mom. I can't still get grounded for something I did 12 years ago, right? There must be a statute of limitations on that...

After senior prom. At the Village Inn. I'm wearing overalls. They were the thing then, trust me. Everyone was doing it.



After high school, I moved to Dallas, met some people, and did some stuff.

Jay and I dated for almost five years. For some reason in this picture, he's trying to eat my face or something. I picked it because it's the only one where I might look cuter than him. He totally reminds me of Jim from The Office.



I blame this next picture on him. Completely.



Back in the day, before college, I spent a number of years selling houses. I looked like this:



These are some random embarrassing shots:





Oh, and I can't forget...the moment I knew I didn't want to have children. When they parked me at the foot of my stepmother's vagina and made me watch her give birth. I. Am. Never. Doing. That.



And last, but certainly not least, here's me...this morning, while sitting at a coffee shop in Seattle making this blog for you. Hi!



If I'm not home in a week...leave me the hell alone. I love it here!

Could I please just meet a boy who doesn't want to wear my skin?

I'm just going to start at the beginning, repetitive though it may be. It's really long. Far too long. But when I sent it to Rebecca (do you ZooLoo? I do!) over at Losing it to see if she could help me edit it down, her response was "You. Cannot. Edit. Any. Of. This." So here it is, in all its glory. Feel free to skim it, peruse it, glance at it, print it out and light it on fire, or not read it at all. I won't hold it against you. There's some really good stuff in here, though. How did all of this happen in two months?


At the end of January, I got dumped by a douchebag of epic proportions. I wrote about it endlessly as if anyone cared. As it turned out, some people did (thanks for your support, guys!). Who knew?

I wasted far too much energy and far too many tears on someone who really never cared about me in the first place.

I closed myself off and shut myself down for a good four months. Then, one day, it was like the light just came on again. I started going out more and hanging out with my friends while not wearing my pajamas. I found some new hobbies. I met some new people. It was great.

Then I ran into Motorboater. We all remember him, right? Very quickly, though we’d only really been out a few times, he got really attached to me. It freaked me out. A lot. The whole time I was saying things like, “I’m not really ready for anything serious” and “Gosh, I kinda think you’re a jackass” and “Gee, no, I really don’t trust you.” And still, it didn’t dissuade him.

Then came the day when he decided to go into weird, slightly psychotic mode. There were phone calls and text messages and he asked me to meet his mom (after like three dates…wtf?). My personal favorite was when he asked me if I wanted to come hang out with him and his mom (no), and I said I had plans to go rock climbing with my friends and then we were going to have dinner. His response? “Cancel that. I haven’t seen you in a week.”

Not bloody likely. (Sometimes I don an English accent when I'm pissed.)

After a couple more calls and texts and some guilt trip about how he didn’t have anyone to talk to because his mom was hanging out with the guy she picked up at the last bar, I agreed to come out for one beer. Then his mom gave that stranger a blow job in front of the bar. And I was done. Stick a fork in me, whatever.

I didn’t hear from him for a while after that, which was fine with me. Then he called me one night, while I was at dinner with my mom. I didn’t call him back. That was the end of it. So I thought.

A week or so later, I ran into him at a bar. I tried to be nice and just sort of friendly let’s let bygones be bygones about the whole thing. But Motorboater? No…he steadfastly refused to speak to me for most of the evening, but while sitting at my table. Ugh. Then he finally left. At 2:00 am, I receive a text about how he didn’t think that seeing me would affect him, but it does and it really sucks when someone tells you they don’t want to get hurt, but then they ignore your calls and act like nothing’s wrong and how he knows that this is what happened to me in my last relationship, so he knows I know how much this hurts.

What?

So my year and a half long relationship is comparable to our three dates? No. Save that drama for your mama (not that she doesn’t cause enough of it on her own.). I’m out.

Then I met this guy and we were friends and I really enjoyed that and then he kissed me and it was nice and we went out once, but I was worried about it ending our friendship so I had to say something and I think I hurt his feelings, but we’re still friends and everything is okay. I hope. (And he reads my blog. Everyone say hi!)

Last week, I was shopping for groceries and this guy sort of…hit on me. Blah blah, he asked me out and he seemed cool, so I said yes. We had a really great first date. Like really great. Movie first date great. We had a really great first kiss. Like really great. Better than movie first kiss great. (Of course the next day, via text message he FREAKED me out by telling me he felt like we were involved and asking me if I felt the same…wtf? After what follows, you can totally come back up here and say, “Uh, shine? RED FLAG!” and you will be completely right and I will buy you a beer. Or a cupcake.)

And I got excited. About a boy. We hung out a couple more times. I decided to overlook that he was wearing crocs, for crying out loud…who does that? Plus, he was a smoker. Still, I was excited. Our second date was also good. Then we had our third date. It can only be described as awkward with a touch of defensive. I’m not sure what happened, but the whole time we were at dinner, things were just…off. He told me stories I wouldn’t tell someone I was trying to impress, he quizzed me on music (Because he knew I had dated a couple of musicians and he’s a musician, blah blah. Oh, by the way, I’m DONE with musicians. I hope…), and generally acted in a bizarre fashion.

Oh, I should mention here that he also had this thing for asking me what I was thinking. Do boys outside of high school still do that? I thought you men were all about not knowing what we’re thinking. And this wasn’t just like hey we’re sitting in silence for five minutes and you have this pained expression on your face so I’m going to ask you what you’re thinking because it seems like I should. This was like hey we’re kissing, but now I’m going to pull back and ask, “What are you thinking?” or say, “Penny for your thoughts…” Yeah, in that moment, you don’t want to know what I’m thinking. Trust me. It’s about what an idiot you are, though.

If I want you to know what I’m thinking, I’ll tell you. Does it seem to anyone that I have a problem saying what’s on my mind?

Also, if he texted me mushy crap like “Miss you, XOXO” I didn’t really respond (Because ew). Then a few minutes later I would get a text about how I didn’t respond. Usually fairly defensive in nature. “So I guess no hugs and kisses from you?” Ugh. I don’t really play that crap. It’s weird and stupid and I don’t get it. WHEN I’VE KNOWN SOMEONE FOR A WEEK. I don’t actually miss you, yo. So I’m not going to lie.

Then his roommate came home and everything sort of went into the shitter. It was already teetering on the edge, anyway. Then his incredibly conservative, incredibly republican, incredibly aggressive roommate gave me the third degree for an hour and a half. And he (my date) said the words “Obama is a complete fucking idiot.”

Sure, everyone is entitled to his or her own opinion. But really? Obama’s a complete fucking idiot? I just don’t think so. I refuse to sit and be attacked about my politics by people I barely know. Hell, I refuse to discuss politics with anyone.

I grimly muscled through it and about 15 more what are you thinkings and the next day, I promptly called my bestest mcbestest friend in the whole wide world and the love of my life (it’s really too bad neither of us is a man), Cheese, to discuss. We decided that he definitely lost points and that I was probably going to have to end it.

I was in favor of just letting it fizzle out. After all, we’d only known each other for a week and it wasn’t like we were friends or anything. But oh, no.

Every Monday night, after I work for 12 hours straight, I meet my mom for dinner. We’re trying to have a relationship and stuff. I guess while I was at dinner, he texted me, “Thinkin bout ya! :-)” I know there’s nothing wrong with that, per se. But we’ve only known each other a week and that’s the 37th such text I’ve received. It’s just a little much for me.

After dinner, I called Cheese and we talked while I drove home. Then I downloaded and installed the latest update for my phone (Hello, texting in landscape, you sexy beast!), which took a good half hour. Then my phone rang. Him again.

“Hi. Miss you. What are you doing?”

It’s 11:00 pm on Monday, I’m in my bed. Duh.

“You know, when I text you, it’s totally okay if you text me back. It’s not going to freak me out.”

At this point, I’m pretty sure me skinning a live animal in front of you wouldn’t freak you out. I let out a big sigh and explained that I was busy and shit.

We got off the phone and I went to sleep thinking, yeah, that’s over.

Wednesday, while I was at work, he called me. I didn’t answer BECAUSE I WAS AT WORK. He left me a message, “Uh, hey. It’s me. Give me a call if you don’t mind.”

Five minutes later, he texted me: Hey you! Any chance u may be able to hang after jits 2nite?

Thirty minutes later: Guess u r 2 busy 2 talk 2 me. Drop a line when u can if u don’t mind. Thanks.

(Can I just mention here how much I hate this kind of text? Unless you're phone is old, I see no reason that you can't type out at least most of the words. It takes me forever to translate and it gives me a headache.)

Two hours later: Is everything ok? Not like you to not respond. (To which I kind of wanted to scream “YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW ME, YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IS ‘LIKE’ ME!)

Three hours after that: Well…Hope u r ok.

Then at 11:00 pm, a minute and a half long voicemail including crap like, “I just want to make sure you're okay and you're safe and I haven't done anything to piss you off...just please call me and let me know you're okay, sweetie."

So, okay, with no response from me whatsoever, he called twice, left me two voicemails, and texted me four times. By this point I was so twitchy and annoyed about the whole thing, I didn’t even want to talk to him. Had it been one phone call or one text message (maybe even two texts), I would have gotten in touch with him and we would have proceeded with the fizzle.

Instead, at this point, I’m kind of concerned that he’s going to make a suit of my skin and wear it to feel pretty.

This morning, I sent him the following text:

I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine. I didn’t have my phone with me yesterday, and coming home to two phone calls, two voicemails, and four text messages is way too much, way too fast for me. I’m sure that you’ll find someone who will be thrilled with this level of attention, but that someone is not me. I just don’t see a future for us.

Which I think is damn near crystal clear (The Mole thinks I was far too nice). Not that I expected him to just deal and move on…since clearly he’s crazy.

He usually sleeps really late, so I wasn’t exactly expecting a response right away. I knew I was going to get one, mind you, just not in the next minute or two.

So I get this text:

Please don’t do this. I am very sorry that it was too much. I was genuinely concerned. I care and it gets the better of me when I worry. Please don’t end this…it just got started.

Ugh. First of all, no, you weren’t genuinely concerned. You were worried you had pissed me off, sure. But I’m a grown-up. Not returning a text message for a few hours is not a sign of death. Just a sign that I’m either a) busy, or b) don’t really want to talk to you. Either way, I’ll get back to you when I’m ready and pushing it is only going to make me want to talk to you less. Second of all, seriously, it’s been a fucking week. Get over it.

Then, before I even really had a chance to respond, which I didn’t think I particularly owed him anyway, since I had made myself clear, I get this text (we’re talking about maybe two minutes later…and again, I’M AT WORK):

Wow…No response to my feelings. Ok. Guess there is nothing I can say to change your mind. Thanks for the very little time we shared. Sorry to burden you with my care. Have a good one.

Boo fucking hoo is about all I have to say to that. Also, “Sorry to burden you with my care” is an INSTANT CLASSIC and I will be using it all the time. (Rebecca's reaction: also, sorry to burden you with my care is so awesome, i want to sew it on a pillow, stain it with my own blood and send it to someone. Hell, yeah. Sounds like a Christmas present to me.)

UPDATE: I received yet another text from him: I really wish you would reconsider. I thought we had a good thing starting between us.

TMI Thursday, if you're a boy.

I'm not sure this counts as TMI Thursday in the true sense, but it's on my mind today.

Boys, this one is not for you.

No really, stop reading.




Still reading? Okay, don't say I didn't warn you...

What the hell is up with tampons these days? (You're sorry you kept reading now, aren't you?)

They stopped making my favorite kind years ago. What is so freaking hard about a flushable, biodegradable applicator? I mean, okay, and one that doesn't scratch the inside of your lady parts to bits, thank you Tampax.

And this no applicator thing? I don't get it. It's small, so that's nice. No awkward tampon sword for you to pull out of your purse in front of your boss or that cute boy at the bar who just offered to buy you a beer. But let's talk logistics for just a minute.

So the demon blood is visiting you (What? That's not what you call yours?). Let's say you're out with your girlfriends. Somewhere public. You go to the bathroom and need to exchange your cotton. So you unwrap this no applicator piece of crap, wiggle the string around, put your finger and the bottom, and shove it up there. But now...your finger's kind of a mess, yes? (WAR PAINT STYLE) And you still have to pull up your pants and get to the sink. BUT HOW? It's just gross. I refuse.

And I hate plastic applicators. I hate having to wrap them in toilet paper and touch that biochemical waste plant that is the little trashcan in the public restrooms. And ladies, while we're at it, please stop like wiping your "sanitary napkins" all over the bathroom. Unnecessary, mmmkay?

It just really seems like we could come up with some better options here. And don't even try to talk to me about the demon blood cup thing. 'Cause no. Just no. Let's just say I tried it once and it spilled...SPILLED. Yeah, and I wasn't home.

I don't want to have children. I have no use for the demon blood. Shouldn't there be a box I can check to opt out?

If you're going to advertise a girdle, at least find a person who needs a girdle to model it. Oh, and you get to see my ass.

Generally speaking, I'm not a big fan of the girdle. Sure, I've got some lumpy parts or whatever, but most of the "shapewear" out there tends to just smoosh the fat you're trying to conceal out somewhere else. For instance, let's say I think my ass looks fat in these pants (and no, I would never ask the question. Because if I'm even thinking the question, I probably already know the answer). So I go out and get some "shapewear" to make my ass look slimmer. That's just going to push all my other fat out the top. Ew.

But the thing that kills me the most about this stuff is that they always have some skinny chick modeling it. Because, you know, she needs it. No.

Perfect example? While I was getting ready this morning, I saw this:



Yeah, yeah, I know. There are fat people in there. But the main model? Skinny. In no need of a girdle. Has perfect thighs. I hate her.

Also, my favorite part? The little cartoony re-enactment of what happens when you, dear fat person, put on the girdle thingy. You could look up to 20 pounds slimmer! Notice how the cartoon girl's fat just...disappears! That could be you! No.

Now that we've gotten that out of the way and that model can shove her girdle where the sun don't shine, I'm going to show you my ass.

See, yesterday, I was on my way to meet my climbing buddies, but I really needed a shower. I hopped in and lathered up. As I was shaving my legs, I guess some of my body wash was still on the floor of the tub and I slipped. Hardcore. I was sliding and my ass landed on the soap dish. Now I have this:



Yes, that's a picture of my ass. Don't ever say I don't love you guys. It hurts like hell to sit down.

Is it bad that this sort of made me think of David Carradine?

I'm sorry...



But I laughed.

Go to Cyanide & Happiness for more funny. Just do it. And feel free to send me a T-shirt or a naked plushy doll.

Yeah, I said it.

A collection of random crap I've said this week. Most of it to the same person, actually. I'm shocked that anyone continues to talk to me.

UPDATE: According to a friend talking to me is akin to the whole train wreck situation. You just do it to see what I'll say next. But in a good way. Or something. I don't know, it was kind of confusing, actually.

1. You just...pulled a hand...out of your ass?

2. In my head, you are totally a large-ish black woman with questionable fashion style. A la Jackee. (Said to peterdewolf go read his blog because it's awesome)

3. All I want to do is shout "LEGO my vagina!"

4. It's possible though that he who sucks at Twitter may actually be better at life.

5. I'm not sure how you say "Dude. Your mom? Is kind of a whore..."

6. Dude. The cake is always truth. That Portal game is a lie.

7. My periods keep to themselves. Because they know I want to murder them.

8. I can't spin when I've just grabbed a stranger's ass. I lose all concentration. Oops! I just grabbed your ass!

9. Checking the sexual predator list is always a good time.

10. I heard they were in your backyard on the regular. Look, why wouldn't you look for 1st century civilization in your backyard? If you don't do it, who will? And just think if you found something...It would be really exciting and I could do my dissertation on it even though I don't want to be an archaeologist. So really, it's all about me.

11. How long before it gets weird that I have no idea what your name is?

12. I know. I'm basically Obama. But whiter.

13. Bad grammar is not racially specific. Unless stupid people are their own race.

14. Fish have legs. (I feel like there must have been a reason to say this, but I have no idea what it was...)

15. I'm not old enough for this. Back off. (Said to the 60-year-old man who tried to hit on me.)

16. So that "0" key? On my number pad? Does not function as a space bar. Like ever.

17. Plus, see...your Twitter is like the small, intimate, unplugged venue. You can really cater to your followers. Whatever that might mean. I'm pretty sure it has to do with presents. Personally? I'll take ice cream.

18. Mouthful is pretty kick ass.

19. Oh. Wow. They're subliminal. I just built them right in. (said about exclamation points)

20. I prefer pro-wrestling where the hugging is choreographed.

21. Do I have to eat the baby? Cause that could get awkward.

22. Personally, I think you seem like more of a manscara dude.

23. It's hard to believe, but pretty-ish men on reality television may actually be dumber (and wear more makeup) than pretty-ish women on reality television. Oh Daisy!

24. This chicken was into some kinky stuff.

25. I got a little turned on when I felt my back muscles today. Seriously. Check out my biceps!

Oh crap, now I have to respect Kim Kardashian?

Does anyone know how I go about that?

It seems that she's speaking out against all the people who called her fat...which seriously, people, can we talk about this? The woman is not fat. Obnoxious, but not fat. Famous for no reason, but not fat.



But I do kind of love it that she's cool with admitting she has cellulite. Who doesn't? And at least she pretends to be uncomfortable that everyone stares at her ass all the time. Though, really, I think it's possible she brought that one on herself.

I feel naked without mascara.

Does anyone else have this problem?

I don't wear much other makeup, but I feel totally naked without mascara. And chapstick, but I don't think that counts as makeup. Plus, I never leave home without my tube of Burt's Bees.

Last night, I watched Dancing with the Stars. It's just painful. Steve Wozniak, Steve-O, that one chick who used to be Heff's girlfriend and now is trying to be famous for...anything else. It was a LOT of bad dancing. With a super dramatic (not) double elimination at the end. Which, I suspect was to get rid of Steve Wozniak. And it worked!

Last night's performers, musically speaking of course, were some horrible guy who couldn't decide if he was singing country, pop, or rap (I know, you don't "sing" rap, but I had to be consistent. Shut it.) and Boyz II Men. Wow.

It seems that we just like music that really blows now. The first guy was TERRIBLE. I feel certain that he must have gotten picked on at school as a kid. Now he's in his 40s and trying to do the same music as Britney (sort of), but with a country and rap twist, while he dresses like that emo kid we all avoid like the bubonic plague. Except of course, that no one can avoid the bubonic plague, so it ends up on national television. It was painful.

Later, Boyz II Men performed. I'm going to admit that I was mildly excited. I loved Boyz II Men back in the day. Motown Philly. Back. Again.

Yeah, no. Remember when they used to be able to harmonize? Well, they can't any more. I was hoping that atrocity they called the National Anthem at the World Series a couple of years ago was a fluke. But no. The backup singers were the only reason that they didn't sound exactly like a cat sliding slowly and painfully down a chalkboard nails first. And they lost a boy...where did he go? Maybe he was the only one who could really sing? The skinny one has filled out nicely, though, I will say that.

Speaking of "reality" television, I'm thinking that the people in charge of running our country should take more of a reality television approach to solving our current economic crisis. Or this business with car manufacturers. Or, well, anything. Think about it. People get really fired up about this American Idol crap, right? Maybe set up a show where the "contestants" are actually solutions to some of our bigger problems. And let the people call in to vote. Or something. Possibly a drag race or hot dog eating contest is in order. C'mon government, get in there and get people excited!

It's just an idea. I mean, if millions of people can watch some "older" woman try to get with some younger men and care, why not care about the state of our health care system? Make it sexy!

(Because this Idiocracy thing? Is happening.)

Oh, and HAPPY BIRTHDAY TONY! Sorry you couldn't take the day off.

Twilight

Can we talk about these Twilight books for a minute?

I just…I don’t understand.

Far too many of my sensible adult friends (and some of my not-so-sensible ones) have gone ga-ga over these books. How? Why?!?

I’ll admit that I haven’t read them, so I can’t say much about them. Except. THEY ARE FOR TEENAGERS. Oh, and I’ve read some excerpts. The writing is atrocious. They read like they were written by teenagers, not just for them.

Kudos to this Stephanie Meyer, who has so successfully written a series of novels that appeal to women from age 11 to age 65, it seems.



It’s a story about angsty teenage love between some pale girl and some vampire boy, for crying out loud. Go get an Anne Rice novel. At least she can write. And most of her characters are adults. Although I will admit that her excessive descriptive passages do cause me to skim…excessively.

Really, didn’t we have enough issues as teenagers without adding the extra pressure of death by vampire bite?

The flowery-romance-novel-style writing makes me gag like no tub of mayonnaise ever could. Wait. Scratch that. I gagged just thinking about mayo.

I keep hearing all these comparisons to Harry Potter, too. I haven’t read those either, because last I checked they were supposed to be FOR KIDS, but I have read excerpts. And I’ll say this: J.K. Rowling’s writing doesn’t make me want to gouge my eyes out with a cattle prod. I even saw one of the movies. I didn’t understand even a minute of it, as it was movie number four or five and I hadn’t seen any of the previous movies. But I think it would have been entertaining, had my internal monologue not been going at top speed the whole time.

“Who is that guy? What’s with his hair? I thought these kids were supposed to be kids…they don’t look like kids. Ooooh, Alan Rickman. I LOVE Alan Rickman. I don’t love that someone told me I look like Alan Rickman. That was just insulting. I don’t look like Alan Rickman. Do I? No. He’s hideous. But super-entertaining. I mean, if I had been told that I act as well as Alan Rickman or that I’m as funny as Alan Rickman, I would have taken it as a compliment, but – Oh! What the fuck is that thing? What’s going on in this secret room? How did they do that? I wish I had magical powers. I always wanted to be a witch. That would explain my penchant for watching crap like Sabrina, the Teenage Witch and Charmed. Speaking of Charmed, my my I love Holly Marie Combs (also known as Piper). And that stopping time and blowing things up thing is really cool…”

You see what I’m saying. It’s distracting. How could anyone enjoy a movie while all that is going on? Luckily, it all happens silently in my head. People who insist on sharing their inner monologues during the movie are evil. You know who you are. Please stay out of my theater.

Speaking of movies, did this Twilight movie not just come out in theaters in December?? How is it already on DVD? And doesn't that mean, by definition, that it sort of sucks? If a movie is out on DVD in three months, that usually means that it was terrible...just sayin'.

Back to the matter at hand. Someone please, please explain the draw of these books to me. Well, at least…no. I really don’t want to know. Maybe. I don't know. I don't want to have to think less of you for obsessing about them. But I truly don’t understand.

A repost of a blog I wrote a while back.

I think it still applies to life in general:

You don’t “sale” a house. You sell a house. You don’t have trouble “saling” your house. You might have trouble sailing your boat, but you’ll get the hang of it pretty quickly. Selling your house right now is a bad idea in general, actually.

You know your cell phone has finished charging when it STOPS CHARGING. Usually this involves a completely filled in battery icon. If you don’t know what a battery icon is, I can’t help you.

Asparagus is a vegetable. It’s for eating. It is not, in any way, a scrubbing device.

One half and a half are, in fact, the exact same fucking thing. I say this because someone asked, "I'm sorry, professor, did you say one half or a half?" in my college calculus class. Really.

You cannot ever, under any circumstances, paste the text from a Word document into a folder on your hard drive, and expect your computer to automatically create a new Word file for you. It just doesn't work that way.

Files and programs are not the same thing. Equally, files and folders are not the same thing.

The remote control that came with your laptop is not a mouse, no matter how much you want it to be.

You can begin writing your check before the cashier at the grocery store rings up all your merchandise. There is no age limit on this one.

Ten Items or Less means exactly that. It doesn’t become void if there’s no one else in line.

Know your PIN, (Notice it’s not a PIN number. That’s what the “N” stands for in PIN. Cute little trick, huh? This also works for SSN.) if you plan on using it.

Buying gas is not a negotiable act. You cannot argue your way into lower gas prices once inside the establishment. Calling the cashier “Un-American” is just silly.

Your car is a vehicle that should be used to get you from point A to point B. You should not confuse it with your bathroom. Fix your hair, brush your teeth, read your book, but do it before you get in your car.

Strippers are not your friends. Accept this. Move on.

On a related note, if you sleep with a stripper, that’s your problem. Do not point your penis in my direction again. This rule also applies to hookers, and a few really dirty people I know.

It is possible to work at a fast food joint and not be an idiot. That should be your new goal.

If you’re a teacher, you should know how to spell. It doesn’t matter what you teach.

If you flip your hair and giggle like a school girl every time you’re within ten feet of a man, I think you’re dumb. Your IQ actually drops right in front of my eyes.

Aliens from outer space (not to be confused with illegal aliens, you understand) did not build the pyramids. If they’re out there, I’m sure they have better things to do.

Do NOT use God as birth control. Use birth control as birth control. Sometimes getting pregnant is a result of your own stupidity and not an indication that God thinks you should have more children, even though you don’t make enough money to support the ones you have.

If people tell you that your boyfriend is a lying, manipulative asshole, you don’t get to be shocked when you figure out he is a lying, manipulative asshole. This goes for any and all other boyfriend characteristics.

If you live in this country, learn to speak the language. Oh wait, we’ve all forgotten how to do it, why should anyone else learn? Just practice your lulz instead. It’ll be more useful.

Feel free to drive at least as fast as the posted speed limit on all roads at all times, except in the case of a blizzard. Do not slam on your brakes on the highway unless you’re about to cause bodily harm to another creature (insects are not included).

If you decide to make a commercial, seriously have someone edit it for you before you air it. You don’t want to end up like Rodney Anderson with CTX Mortgage. Here are some highlights: “…what I want to be known for is I want to be known for your lender for life. If you’ve went through a divorce, if you’ve went through hard times, if you’ve went through…” There are a few of us out here who still like properly formed sentences. Verb conjugation really isn’t that difficult. **Since I wrote this, he's made several more horrible commercials.**

As chicks, sometimes we kiss each other to make you happy. It does not mean we’re lesbians, or that we are in any way trying to insult the lesbian community. It is purely as entertainment for you. With the vast amount and variety of porn you’re watching these days, we have to find some way to keep up that does not involve fucking a toaster dressed as a French maid with a giant cock strapped to our pelvis (probably we’ll do this once if you ask nicely and buy us dinner).

Smokin' Out

What does "No Smoking" mean?

Not much, really, if you live in Dallas. By City Ordinance, smoking is not allowed in restaurants or public buildings or bars where a certain percentage of money is made from the sale of food. That covers most of the bars. And yet when I go to the bar, it's usually smoky.

I walk in, noting the "No Smoking" sign on the door, but that's about where it ends. No one who frequents the bar pays the slightest bit of attention to the sign. The owner of the bar doesn't enforce the no smoking policy. The people who work in the bar don't take issue with people smoking.

But I do.

Now the Dallas City Council has voted to expand the ban to all bars and billiard halls (who calls them billiard halls?). You'd think I would be happy, right? But my question is this: What's the point?

If you can't even enforce the current smoking ban, why expand it? Just making a law is not enough. Citizens are thumbing up their noses at you on an hourly basis. They don't care that you've expanded the places where they are currently banned from smoking because they still smoke in many of those places.

For some reason, it's perfectly acceptable to follow the rules in hospitals, schools, day care facilities, and government buildings. But not in bar/restaurants. So you say no smoking? Who cares? I'll smoke if I please!

And all you bar owners. Shut up. No, seriously. Shut. Up. If all bars are non-smoking, you're all on an equal playing field. People aren't going to stop socializing and hanging out at bars just because they can't smoke in them. They haven't stopped going to restaurants, have they? They'll learn to go outside, just like they do at work. You know, when they take an hour of smoke breaks each day, while I'm inside actually working.

Obviously you can't only cut out the smoking in one or two bars. Then those bars might lose business. That's not fair. But if you all enforce it, you're all equal. Play by the rules.

And to you, dear smoker, it is certainly your choice to smoke, and I'm not suggesting you quit. I respect your right to destroy your body (I do it with beer and french fries, myself). But it is my choice not to smoke, and when you smoke next to me, I'm forced to partially smoke along with you. So you're not only destroying your own lungs and vastly increasing your chances of getting cancer (which, for the most part, I don't give a shit about), but you're increasing my cancer risk, too. I don't even really get to be part of the decision. It's not cool.

Aside from that, when I get home, I'm going to smell like your shit cigarette stank. And I didn't smoke. Yes, I chose to go to a bar. I should just suck it up, right?

Except that I chose to go to a bar with "No Smoking" on the door. And you smoked anyway. And since you were probably the only smoker at your table, you held your cigarette away from your friends. It's so polite, really. I mean, you would hate for your friends who know you smoke, and therefore went out with you prepared for you to smoke, to be bothered by your smoking. Much better to aim your disgusting cancer stick in my direction. I'm just that stupid bitch who went to the bar thinking there was a no smoking policy in place.

Do me this favor. Next time, blow the smoke at your friends. Maybe then they won't want to hang out with you as much, and you can stay home and smoke alone.

The New Women

You know how you're always hearing things like, "Brown is the new black!" or "Chipotle is the new McDonald's!"?

Well, maybe you don't. But people say it, nonetheless. Well, I've decided. Men are the new women. Except they're not really an improvement.

No offense to those of you who were born with a penis.

Dontcha just love how people say that? "Hey, I just said something offensive. No offense!" Anyway.

Men are the new women.

They seem to be having a contest at work to see who can be the biggest bitch. They're all winning, as far as I can tell.

Yesterday a guy in the elevator asked me, "Do pink and orange really go together? That's so...gauche." Ouch.

And really, stop waxing your eyebrows. It's just weird.